On a midnight clear, p.13
On a Midnight Clear, page 13
After a few moments, Miss Whitmore’s voice sounded. “I’ve emptied the trunk. Would you like to come check to see if you find something I haven’t?”
He stood and turned. She’d laid all her clothing across the bed—dresses, bundles of frilly white lace, and other things he’d rather not know the names of. He’d only had brothers, and only one faint memory of his mother. Nana hadn’t possessed anything with this much lace, at least not that she’d hung on the line on washing day.
He turned his focus to the trunk first. She’d emptied it well, and he made quick work of inspecting the upper tray and tapping the bottom for hidden compartments. What must she think of him, treating her as though she would willingly steal from the family that had offered them such gracious hospitality. But he wouldn’t be able to rest if he had any lingering questions about places he hadn’t looked.
He straightened and attempted an apology. “I’m sorry for such a search. It’s just . . .”
She waved his words away. “Think nothing of it. It’s awful to be missing such a priceless treasure. If an evil fairy mixed it in with my belongings, I certainly want it discovered and returned. Poor Hope.”
He eased out a breath. “Thank you for being so gracious.”
She turned to her belongings spread across the coverlet. “Help me watch for anything I missed as I pack them away.”
He did his best not to feel like a cad as he studied each item for something solid hiding within. She was careful to hold the garments with her fingertips and shake them out, and by the time she’d repacked the trunk, he had no shadow of a concern that she might have hidden away a knife in her belongings.
He finished searching the crates while she laid out the contents of her two carpetbags, then they repeated the process. He searched the bags, then watched as she carefully inspected each item and tucked it back in one of the satchels. He’d never wanted to know everything women carried with them, but he now possessed the knowledge, though he couldn’t remember half the names she’d mentioned for the items he wasn’t familiar with. Best he forget altogether.
At last, she turned to him. “Where next?”
Only the bed remained, and it didn’t take long for the two of them to remove the blankets and search the mattress tick. The cornhusk filling likely made her sleep as uncomfortable as his, but he’d slept on worse—a stone floor was far more uncomfortable.
After what felt like an eternity, she pulled the coverlet up over the bottom blanket and turned to him with sad eyes. “I’m afraid it’s not here. I’m so sorry.”
She truly did look sorry. Charles should be proud of this excellent young woman he’d raised. Charles was proud. He said that often. And he was counting down the days until she returned from school.
That reminder dulled Noah’s relief, and he stepped toward the open doorway. “Thank you for helping me be so thorough.” He turned back and gave a half bow. “I’ll leave you to your rest.”
As he pulled the door closed behind him, the mixture of emotions in his chest felt like they might combust within him. He’d just done something that would be a scandal in proper circles. But he’d done it to help Hope, and he didn’t regret the search. If only it had been successful. Not that he wanted Miss Whitmore to be a thief, but surely there would have been a logical explanation.
And at least he would have been able to return Hope’s treasure to her. He could well imagine how her expressive eyes would light. That pert mouth would probably open in surprise. And maybe she would even hug him—something impulsive and strictly for celebration. He could practically feel her warmth beneath his hands.
He shouldn’t be imagining such things.
As he strode through the main room, Hope sat beside Sam’s still form. She looked up at him with a curious expression, but he didn’t stop to answer her questions. He could share the details of the search in the morning.
Just now, he didn’t trust himself to be so close to her. Not with the darkness and cold thick outside and the warm fire making the room feel intimate.
He turned away from her as he pulled on his coat and hat. “Good night, Miss Palmer.”
As he opened the door, her voice drifted behind him. “Good night . . . Noah.”
His name spoken in her lovely voice, her tone so hesitant, made him want to turn back into the warm, bright cabin. He stepped farther into the icy wind and closed the door behind him.
Watch yourself, Bentwood. You’ve no business tangling with a woman who lives here in the middle of nowhere. He had his life laid out for him. And falling for a woman who lived and planned to stay in the wilderness of the Nebraska Territory wasn’t part of that plan.
CHAPTER 6
The cabin lay quiet in the morning stillness except for the crackling of the fire. Hope stepped softly to Mr. Thompson’s side to see if he might be awake. Should she rouse him to ask about the knife?
She’d intended to talk with him yesterday right after she and Noah planned their search, but the poor man had been in need of a great deal of care. By the time he’d been cleaned up and fed, he was too exhausted to keep his eyes open.
Then Martin had finally come in from the barn, too weary and cold to be civil. She’d decided to ask him about the knife when he came back from hunting today.
As she stood beside Mr. Thompson, his eyelids slowly lifted.
She eased out a breath. Good. She settled cross-legged beside his bed, adjusting her skirts to cover herself properly, and sent him a smile. “Good morning. Are you feeling better?”
His gaze drifted to her face, distant at first, then focusing. “Might finally be on the mend.” His voice rasped so much it was hard to understand his words. At least his spirits were returning.
She rested her fingers on his brow. “I’m glad to hear it. Your fever hasn’t returned, so I do think you’re recovering. The important thing now is to get your strength back.”
He gave a small nod even as his eyes drifted shut. “I’ve imposed on your hospitality too long.”
“Nonsense. You’re always welcome here. The snow is still too deep for the stage to get through anyway.” He looked like he was about to drift off again, so she spoke quickly. “I was hoping to ask a question.”
His lashes fluttered, opening a crack.
She pressed on. “By chance, have you seen a knife? One with an antler handle and the name Palmer carved into the grip?”
Mr. Thompson’s brow furrowed. “A knife? No. I . . . the last few days are hazy.” He spoke slowly. “I wouldna taken somethin’ of yours. Surely not in my right mind.”
She did her best to hide her disappointment. Should she take him at his word? She hated to search his bag without his consent, though it would be easy enough once he slept.
His eyes cracked a little wider and looked toward his bag on the floor. “You can check my things, just in case. I’d look for ya, but you’ll be faster at it.”
She reached for the worn leather satchel and set it on her lap. The brass clasp was tarnished and the leather straps nearly worn through. She unfastened the latch and folded back the flap.
Inside were a few spare articles of clothing, all of them threadbare and so dirty they almost crackled when she unfolded the bundle. Aside from those, the bag held a tin cup, a wooden spoon, a comb, a small sewing kit, and a very worn knife with its blade scratched from so many sharpenings. A leather-wrapped bundle held several strips of dried meat—a snack for the road, most likely.
And that was all. No books. Nothing for pleasure. He likely couldn’t read and probably found entertainment in visiting with friends at the stops along his route. And these probably weren’t his only possessions, just the small supply he needed when he drove.
At first, she’d felt sorry for the man who had so few belongings to carry. But maybe he’d learned the wisdom in relishing the gifts that came his way every single day. Like when Jesus sent his disciples out two-by-two to preach about the Kingdom of God. He told them not to take even an extra set of clothes. They would be fed and cared for along the way. How hard it must have been to trust so fully.
“See it anywhere?” Mr. Thompson’s quavering voice brought her back.
“No. The only knife in here is yours.” She slipped everything back into the bag except the cloth bundle. “Do you mind if I wash these clothes while you’re here?”
He blinked at her. “I’d be obliged, Miss Hope.”
Rising, she settled him more comfortably on the pillow and drew the quilt up over his chest. “Rest now. I’ll check on you again in a bit.”
As she turned to leave, Mr. Thompson’s voice stopped her. “Miss Hope?” His words were slurred with fatigue. “I truly hope ya find that knife. Seems like it means a good deal to ya.”
Emotion welled in her throat. “It does. It’s been passed down through the men in our family for several generations. I was planning to give it to Martin on Christmas.” She swallowed hard against the burn in her eyes. “But don’t fret about it. You focus on getting well.”
His eyes had already drifted shut, but he managed a small nod.
She watched him a moment longer, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. At least she could rule him out as a suspect. But that still left the mystery unsolved.
With a sigh, she turned to put the clothes with her other washing. Now would be a good time to share her findings with Noah.
As Noah brushed the gelding’s neck in the dim light of the stall, the barn door creaked open. He peered around the wall to see who had entered. Maybe Martin had returned from his hunt.
But Hope stood in the doorway, the light framing her in silhouette. Even as a solid shadow, she was beautiful. Her stray curls gave her a feminine look, but she carried herself with a confidence all those fainting flowers in the elegant ballrooms would do well to learn.
She must have seen him, for she stepped inside and let the door fall shut. The lantern’s soft glow shone on her face, making her look like a dark-haired angel with that soft smile on her lips. Yet as she approached and he could see her expression better, the worry there tightened his chest.
As she approached, he moved back to brushing the gelding. He’d been careful to do everything he could think of to care for the stage horses since Sam couldn’t.
Hope halted in front of the stall where he worked. “I hope I’m not disturbing you. I thought we could compare notes on our questionings.” Disappointment weighed her voice.
“I take it you didn’t have any luck?”
She shook her head, her shoulders slumping. “No. Mr. Thompson said he hasn’t seen it. He had me go through his pack, and it’s certainly not there.”
Noah grimaced. “The same with Miss Whitmore. I searched the crates in her room, and she looked through her trunk and bags.” He tried not to let the heat rise to his face again at the memory.
She sighed, the worry lines deepening on her forehead. “It’s like the knife just vanished into thin air.” She stared down at her hands.
His fingers itched to wrap around hers. It would be a normal sign of comfort between friends, wouldn’t it?
But just as he’d convinced himself to reach out, she looked up. That desperation from before glimmered in her eyes. “I don’t know what else to do. I’ve looked everywhere.”
He hesitated. “Is there any chance your brother has it?”
She stilled, then a flicker of pain flashed on her face. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked it. But her expression turned thoughtful. After a moment, she shook her head. “Martin doesn’t even know the meaning behind the knife. And he would have no reason to go through my trunk.”
Noah nodded. “Well, then . . . I suppose it might be good for us to do one final search of the rest of the house and barn. Just in case there’s a clue we might have missed.” He tried for an encouraging grin. “Maybe a mousehole big enough a little rodent could have carried the knife through.”
She scrunched her nose. “I’m not sure I want that to be the answer.”
He chuckled, then reached for the rope across the stall doorway. “Is now a good time to start looking?”
She nodded. “Martin’s still out hunting, so we can search his room and mine. Then the main room and the barn . . .”
He raised his brows. “Think he’ll be upset if we go through his things while he’s gone?”
She scrunched her nose. “I wouldn’t do it with anyone else except him. He’s my younger brother, and he’s always been happy for me to put away his clean clothes or all the knickknacks he leaves around the cabin.” She glanced in the direction Martin had ridden earlier, as though she could see through the barn wall. “I’ll ask him about the knife and let him know we searched his room as soon as he gets back.”
Noah nodded, then motioned for her to lead the way from the barn.
CHAPTER 7
Martin’s room was a small, tidy space—a bed, a chest of drawers, a trunk at the foot of the bed. Together, Noah and Hope methodically searched in the chest, under the mattress, and between folded shirts and trousers in the drawers. No sign of the missing knife.
Hope’s shoulders slumped as they moved on to her room. “I’ve searched in here several times already.”
As she stepped inside, Noah hung back. “Do you want me to look in the main room while you go through yours once more?” His mouth went dry at just the thought of being in there.
She shook her head, her eyes turning glassy. “You might notice something I haven’t. This is the last place I saw it too.” She glanced inside. “If you’d rather not be in here with me, I’ll go through the kitchen again while you search here.”
That sounded like an even worse idea. He couldn’t go through her belongings—her unmentionables—without her there. He would have to think of this as simply a job to be done. A task to get through.
“I . . . it’s probably best for us to work together.” His voice cracked on the words, but at least he got them out.
She turned and stepped inside, and he followed. But he only made it as far as the doorway, then stopped to let himself take in the space.
Hope’s room was cozy and simple, yet filled with feminine touches. A patchwork quilt in cheerful colors covered the narrow bed. A vase of dried lavender sat on the wooden dresser, filling the air with a subtle, sweet scent. Noah swallowed hard, suddenly all too aware he was standing in the private space of the woman who’d begun to take up too much space in his thoughts.
She moved to the trunk at the foot of her bed and knelt beside it. “I’ve gone through this at least three times now,” she said with a sigh as she opened the lid. “But maybe a fresh set of eyes will spot something I missed.”
Noah stepped forward, honing his focus again. This was about finding the knife, nothing more. He knelt beside her, and they removed and inspected each item inside. Folded fabric, shawls, stockings, a few treasured books.
When she pulled out the wooden box where she’d kept the knife, his chest tightened. The expression on her face said its contents were special.
Hope lifted the lid of the box with trembling fingers. Inside lay a collection of trinkets and mementos—a pipe, ladies’ gloves, and two gold buttons. Cavalry, if he wasn’t mistaken.
She fingered the smooth cedar bottom of the box. “This is where I kept it.” The reverence, the longing in her tone made him want to know about these other pieces. They were special to her, so they mattered.
He reached out a single finger to touch the bowl of the pipe. “What are these treasures?”
She picked up the pipe, cradling it in both hands. “This was my father’s. He only smoked it in the winter, when we’d have long evenings inside. He’d sit in an armchair with a tall back and smoke the pipe.”
Her gaze turned unfocused. “I don’t remember him ever reading during those evenings. We all talked, and he watched what the rest of us did. Like he simply enjoyed being with us.” Her voice caught at the end, and the tears shimmering in her eyes looked like they might spill over.
She sniffed, and her gaze focused again, landing on him. “He died when I was seven. A heart condition that kept him in bed those last weeks.”
He nodded. There weren’t words that could ease the loss, but at least he could show his own feelings. “I’m sorry you lost him so young.”
Her mouth formed a shaky smile. “What of you? Are your parents still alive? Where did you grow up?”
That old familiar knot balled in his throat, but he summoned his usual casual tone when sharing these details. He didn’t speak of them much, but he needed Hope to know this part of him. To understand how low his background had been. He was no prize. Not the kind most women sought.
“I never knew my father. My mother died when I was four, during the birth of my younger brother. My grandparents raised us. There was an orchard in the yard, and we sold oranges in town.” Why had he added that last part? He didn’t tell people that.
Sorrow filled her gaze, and she looked like she wanted to lay her hand on his. He would have welcomed the touch, but he didn’t want pity.
“Were your grandparents kind?” she asked. “You had other siblings?”
He nodded. “They did their best. It’s not easy for an older couple to raise three boys without much of a livelihood. My older brother is Tom and the younger Mose.”
She studied him, and his neck itched at the way she seemed to see so much with that gaze. After a moment, she spoke in a soft voice. “I’m sorry it was so hard, but I can see how that upbringing made you the man you are today.”
He swallowed, still trying to work loose the knot in his throat. “Yes.”
